


Multiple Discovery

by Laika



Series: Vocation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laika/pseuds/Laika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Multiple Discovery: the hypothesis that two scientists may arrive at the same discovery independently, though often simultaneously.</p><p>John and Sherlock explore this hypothesis from the depths of domestic bliss - or as close as they get to it, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multiple Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of fluff. First time writing Johnlock, so please be gentle. I've managed to incorporate some book canon so credit for that goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - you magnificent bastard, you. Any errors are entirely my fault.
> 
> All my love and appreciation goes to the-willow of tumblr, without whom this would not be possible.

\---

"And I... am. Look at the two of us."

This woman, _the_ woman, whose business is love or something like it but especially the unconventional kind.  As much as he dislikes her for what she did to him, he knows what she's saying even if he doesn't know what to say - because he really isn't gay, really. He knows this for a fact. But her words continue to nag at him.

 _Look at the two of us, in love with Sherlock Holmes._ Because that's what she was saying all along, wasn't it? Doesn't take a consulting detective to figure that bit out.

And Sherlock heard her, on multiple occasions possibly, but does he know? Is there room in that mad alien brain of his to understand what she could have meant?

Would he believe her if he did?

\---

Sherlock Holmes doesn't, can't, _actively chooses not to_  acknowledge anything as trivial as the concept of personal space. It is relegated to the same category as personal belongings such as phones and laptops, and occasionally upstairs bedrooms (for when one really needs to construct a makeshift quarantine without having to put one's own closet out of order, because really, pressing all those shirts - or so he says). Same goes for free will, the right to privacy, et cetera.

Raucous late night television, only marginally better than daytime television - in this case B- or possibly C-horror - laptop balanced precariously on one knee, Sherlock's head on the other because when he must escape to his Palace or reorganize his Brain-Attic or whatever, it can only be on his terms - although really, that isn't any different from how he is usually, is it? Unruly dark curls, fingers steepled under his chin, taking up entirely more space than he has any right to. John sighs; Sherlock doesn't stir.

He hasn't left the flat in a week, or eight days, actually. Not that that's particularly strange. John had asked him a few days ago if he wanted to go _somewhere_ , anywhere at all, and Sherlock only looked at him like he was speaking a less common dialect of Croatian and did not deign to answer.

Aside from that, things are relatively tame. You could call it domestic, even. Sherlock mostly sulks about, or throws tantrums, or performs elaborate experiments, or sinks into nigh-unresponsive meditative states, and he never, never gets up before noon, although that's not surprising considering the hours he keeps. Technically, John knows Sherlock is at one of his Low Points, weighed down by the inactivity, the mediocrity of everyday life. And yet, John dares to believe that this time it's not quite so bad.

The table is impassably cluttered with John's old medical texts - all appropriated, of course, to a higher calling. The kitchen is much the same, the fridge occupied by bacterial cultures, both intentional and otherwise, which "absolutely must not be disturbed, John, for the love of scientific method-" And there it is again, the ball of bedding on one of the chairs (John's, certainly not Sherlock's, let's be reasonable) as a reminder that the upstairs bedroom may never be inhabitable by another human being again. ("Results, John! Infinitely more important than a little "biohazard".)

This is the life that he's created, agreed to, tacitly accepted on the basis of the knowledge that there is no life outside of Sherlock. There really isn't. He takes up all the air and space, all of his time and patience, and yet -

\- What else does John have? His career is no longer relevant, perhaps was at some point but isn't anymore because what point is there in pouring all of your energy into saving people when you're only delaying the inevitable? At some point it's too much, and so now he pours all of his time and effort into Sherlock instead because at least he's exciting and he really desperately needs someone to make sure that he occasionally eats some toast and doesn't trample all over everyone else's feelings. And then there's the fact that he has the potential to be good or at least do good; in spite of what most people think his moral compass must be pointed unerringly to 'good' or else he wouldn't have chosen this life. He just needs a little help sometimes. Or almost all the time.

He pauses. Not much point in writing with no cases and even he has to admit that his abortive attempt to write about Sherlock's experiments is coming across as a bit naggy.

He glances at Sherlock and gets an impression of lanky pale limbs, improbably slender frame. An intersection of too many angles. Knees thrust out awkwardly from the bottom of his (only third best) dressing gown, a triangle of chest leading to an expanse of exposed white shoulder. Because of the angle, his view is mostly of razor-sharp cheekbones, a bit of mouth and nose.

(An embarrassing comment made by a nude woman comes to mind and John banishes it from his mind, skipping over that.)

He can't see his eyes but he knows, because they are branded indelibly into him, that they are just as pale and strange as the rest of him. Not to mention just the littlest bit frightening, yet undeniably beautiful.

_(Beautiful?)_

They don't talk often during his low points, and when the long bouts of silence aren't brought on by Sherlock's irritability it's actually not so bad. Comfortable, even, though John knows technically he should be concerned. And he is, a little. How many mornings does he come down to find him immobile in front of a microscope, only to be plied with a little tea and put back to bed?

It's better than the alternatives, of course. John tries not to look but it's hard to avoid when the marks stand out so starkly, white on white - doesn't take a medical degree to notice, especially not when he refuses to put bloody clothes on most of the time.

Actually, that's not quite true. He looks to make sure there are no fresh ones, doesn't he? So far so good.

His attention voluntarily slides sideways to the head resting on his thigh. Bodies are strange. Take this head, for instance - full of incoherent brilliance, a heavily booby-trapped treasure trove of information and all the calculating fine-tuned analytic software to process it. A gift to humankind, an anomaly that must be protected. And he _is_ brilliant. There's never been any question of that.

(The starlet's face is curiously vapid for someone being so horribly murdered. _Should be quite a lot more blood than that,_ John observes distantly.)

But beside that there is him, the side that nobody believes exists. Sherlock who laughs and makes a fuss _constantly_ and gets hurt (although he wouldn't admit it), who has feelings (although nobody would believe it, not even him) and who is completely insufferable but would not be himself if he weren't. All of it contained within a skull. Such a little thing. Technically skulls are much stronger than we give them credit for, but brains are not.

It hits him again, this idea that makes his breath hitch a little, the one that he has had before because of the nature of his work but normally after the fact, after it's too late: the head that he holds in his lap is precious and rare, irreplaceable. It contains the vital essence of someone that he cares about. And skulls are not completely invulnerable, which frightens him.

Does he love him?

Maybe. It's something, at least, but certainly strong enough to be love. And he supposes they could be considered a couple in most senses of the word, maybe every sense except one. He's stopped arguing about that, even though he isn't gay, has no interest in men at all, thank you. (Here is subconscious quite unhelpfully supplies a vague concept of the milky insides of long white thighs, a press of limbs and mouth before his mind seizes up and pushes the thought far, far away.) _Not_ gay. But maybe that isn't important or necessary to his definition of love.

When Harry came out ages ago, at first she was Harry the Lesbian and it was a Big Deal with all the bullying and whispers that went along with it because kids and even adults are cruel, and although John was not surprised in the least, even to him she was The Lesbian until the fact was no longer new. After a while, he realized that The Lesbian had nothing to do with the fact of Harry His Sister, had not altered any essential truth of her, and now when new or particularly closed-minded acquaintances or distant family members speak in hushed tones about his "gay" sister and "that sort", he feels nothing but dull disgust and irritation that people can be phased by such an inconsequential, ugly little word.

Perhaps his love (yes, love, it must be that) is like that. Small, limited words that clumsily delineate human sexuality have no bearing on its existence or meaning; it is simply there. It exists. It is small and fragile. He must protect it, store it for safe keeping the way he saves the rare appreciative glances that tells him that he has said or done the right thing so he can share in the feeling that he is part of something extraordinary.

(Isn't that why people are drawn to him? Is that why John tolerates him? No, it's just a part of it.)

Surprisingly, coming to terms with the word is less difficult than he expected. It doesn't change anything but is no less true.

Almost without thinking, he places his left arm in the space of Sherlock's shoulder, palm pressing down soft, dark curls. It feels natural, because John is simply protecting what is his, his best interests. This is alright.

\---

Sherlock's jaw tightens.

"Distracting, John."

"And the telly isn't, somehow."

"It's entirely different," he huffs. "If I allowed mindless drivel to break my concentration I would have to relinquish society entirely and become a hermit." He breaks the steeple, hands held parallel above his face, parenthesizing his point.

"Yes, whatever. Which makes it different how?"

His hands drop.

"It's my sofa, John," he sulks.

"It's Mrs. Hudson's sofa, actually, and right now it happens to be my bed, because as you recall some madman sealed off my room without permission, and considering I do, in fact, pay half of the rent, that should be something you would consult me about..."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," he drawls with a long-suffering sigh, and begins massaging his temples.

"Really. Me, dramatic. Pot, kettle."

"Hm."

"I still don't know it's occurred to you that this is my bed."

"I assure you that your bed is still perfectly intact."

John inhales and explains slowly, as though to a small and very difficult child.

"Sherlock, strange men in special suits are going to have to come and clean that entire room, not to mention the fact that you're going to have to explain why there's a -"

"Please, I think we both know by now that I am perfectly capable of disposing of a corpse if the need arose.”

"Okay, frightening thought, and also don't ever repeat that to anyone. Jesus, Sherlock."

"It's not like its human, if that's what's setting off your little Compassion Alarm," he adds, somewhat petulantly.

"No, it's because it is my bloody room, and you are taking up the entire sofa and then chastising me for inadvertently touching you because heaven forbid anything interrupts Sherlock Holmes and his magnificent brain -" he lifts his arm.

Sherlock's hand snakes up and slender fingers grasp his wrist, clamping his hand down again.

"Leave it then," he spits.

John pauses, eyebrows lifted, but then shrugs and goes back to editing. He must take small victories where he can; god knows they're few and far between, and he can't give Sherlock the satisfaction of arguing.

Part of him wonders if this isn't a different kind of victory as well.

\---

Sherlock

\---

A sharp intake of breath alerts me to him. Before that he had been still, intermittent typing following by long gaps of inactivity - not writing anything of import, then, although whether he ever writes anything of import is questionable. Also failing or perhaps deigning not to react to even the most salacious details of the television, so he is deep in thought, although about what is impossible to know. All perfectly dull and normal until that breath exactly thirteen, no fourteen seconds ago and counting although there is otherwise no change. Type of breath indicates what? Physical pain such as cracked rib? - but no, no occasion for that. Tempted to crane neck up to see his maddeningly transparent face because that would answer everything but can't be bothered to get up. Also, his thigh is quite comfortable.

Body tension or lack thereof suggests that he is completely relaxed in my presence, which is good because I admit that I didn't give much thought to his; needed the sofa and he happened to be there and as such is a necessary impediment to my occupying the sofa in its entirety but one I will accept. He is clean, showered earlier - more than six hours, as only the base note remains of his aftershave - sandalwood, nice enough I suppose, most likely chosen by some past girlfriend and he continues to replenish it out of habit or blind faith. The fact that he is clean but wearing day-before-yesterday's clothes - so, concerned about hygiene but refusing to ask whether I removed his clothes from the closet before quarantining his bedroom. The answer is yes, of course, and he should be very proud that I would. Indicates that he either doesn't want to know in case of an unfavourable answer or is sulking about it - most likely the latter.

John with his face showing every year of his age except for in his smile, which is deceptively young and open - unbearably so, like every glance is concentrated, meant only for the recipient. How can he survive, being so open, so trusting? But he isn't delicate, either. It defies reason. Psychosomatic limp, poorly-adjusted post-military posturing, _atrocious_ excess of cable-knit jumpers in his wardrobe like he's never had the heart to say no to an unwanted gift in his life, tiniest of coffee stains on the underside of right cuff of said atrocious jumper that he hasn't noticed for two days, would never notice -

Stop, stop - analyzing John over and over won't ward off the boredom, horrid and oppressive and looming just on the edge of - but he does. To some degree. Takes the edge off, at least.  Dissecting him, his actions, the sheer absurdity and unlikelihood of his presence in my life. People are boring, mere vehicles of motive, but not John. He is greater than a sum of his parts.

What am I thinking?

And now - just now, he puts his hand on my head.

I'm looking for the signs, of course. Can't feel his pulse without arousing suspicion but his breathing is damnably normal, unchanged from earlier. No awkwardness or hesitation in the gesture, neither jerky nor overly smooth which would have belied premeditation. Where his skin contacts my shoulder I can tell that his temperature is only fractionally higher than average, but that is usual John, contributing no doubt to his excellent bedside manner - warm hands feeling for fractures, and so on - and also perhaps to his finesse as a lover, although it is impossible to tell. Yes, entirely normal and now because of my broken calm and frankly panicked evaluation, my own heart rate and breathing are elevated although he would never, ever think to notice. It's all very strange.

Doing it again, the analyzing. Can't help it. He's just so... Convenient.

The woman would have it that John is in love with me, but if he is, he is not showing the usual signs. I am at a loss. Either I've missed something important - inconceivable - or she was wrong - almost equally inconceivable, because even though in the end she wasted her incredibly brilliant mind, spoiled it with sentiment, she was undeniably clever and perhaps her sentiment meant that she was more sensitive to these things, could recognize it in him. These people and their feelings. There must be a third alternative. Has to be.

The chemicals released when danger is present, when mystery and excitement pervade, and influx of adrenaline and dopamine and so on, a chemical reaction called 'love' amongst other things. Case in point: need I bring up our first day as flat mates?

I want to know if it is true, although it would make little difference. I simply cannot reciprocate. It's impossible. But it is fascinating and mildly unnerving which explains my damned heart rate. Do I want him to be in love with me? Nice to have someone to make coffee, deal with the imbeciles.

I have to collect my thoughts about his arm.

What is the most basic, unerring truth of the situation? Must dismiss any conjecture based on insufficient evidence - infuriatingly, no amount of guesswork will provide me with John's innermost thoughts and feelings, so that's out.

What remains:

1\. Regardless of everything, he chooses to stay with me. (With _me_.)

2\. Would rather have him around than not. Most of the time.

Without categorizing the looks, the words - can't know with any certainty what he _means_ , and there is certain danger in constructing theories based on such tentative signals - it's all so complicated, so much more so than molecules and plant matter and categorizing shoe polish and basically anything else - I am left with almost nothing to build on, nothing concrete.

One other thing, although admittedly it is almost as tentative and unreliable as guessing at John's feelings - but any truth is better than indefinite doubt.

I want him around. I want him to worry about me. Bask in it, revel in it. More frighteningly, I worry about him. Oh, god, constantly, and I hate it, this loathsome - worse than no murder, worse than tedium even - and I worry that by associating with me I'll either get him killed or wreck him. Possibly both. Which is worse? Doesn't matter. Mind compiles a list of possible situations, ways in which I will inevitably disappoint him, destroy him, and I _hate_ it. I hate this weakness, can't give in to it, must come up with an alternative, but how? I don't control this. It is beneath reason, beneath emotion even. Something more primitive. Something like addiction, which I know all too well. If it were anything else, I would be able to control it.

The problem is, the biggest problem - my wanting him around equals or exceeds my instinctive urge to drive him away to normalcy and, consequently, to safety. Perhaps I understand this too well, too: _John, for some unimaginable reason the reward centre of my brain responds to you. Nothing personal._  Third fact. Let us recap.

1\. He stays, for some obscene and perhaps masochistic reason.

2\. I am okay with this.

3\. I am too okay with this to get rid of him.

This solves nothing.

The most pressing danger still stems from me. It has, in all likelihood, been encroaching upon me since the beginning - before John, even, just waiting for me to fall victim to human weakness. Over and over again - sentiment is a flaw, an emotional response that favours primitive instincts over reason. Reason divorced from emotion is the only option. They don't coexist. To allow it to do so would be the end.

And yet - he is the exception, because he makes caring seem like a strength. It's the opposite of right, but you can prove a theory right a hundred times over and it doesn't prove anything. The only thing that matters is if you can prove it wrong.

I cannot reconcile the side of me that wants to understand him and the side that sees the folly in this. I can't keep him and keep him alive. That's beyond even my power. Things would be so much easier if I could just... Stop. But I can't. Is this the beginning of compassion? Is it contagious? God help me.

May call for something drastic.

\---

Hours pass.

"Time for bed." John closes the laptop with a decisive snap.

No response.

"Sherlock." A gentle, ambiguous shift of fingers against his scalp to coax him into wakefulness.

He opens his eyes slowly, as though in protest, and blinks languidly. "Mm."

"Go to bed."

"Not tired."

"I don't care. Pretend that you run on sleep like other people." John jiggles his knee gently under his head to rouse him, and after a token amount of resistance, Sherlock rolls into a sitting position with a huff.

He is quickly displaced by a pile of bedding and stands there, aloof, clutching the front of his dressing gown with one hand, the other closed in a fist, his eyes distant. They don't refocus until John returns, teeth brushed.

"Pyjamas?"

"What's that?”

Sherlock glances disparagingly at John's third-day trousers. "Pyjamas, do you need them?"

"I'm not certain that you own any, given what you wear about the flat."

" _Your_ Pyjamas, John."

"You have my - ugh, of course you do, after I was on the receiving end of the Professionalism Talk at the clinic today and everything." John sighs.

Against all rationality, Sherlock disappears briefly and returns with bounty in hand. After handing them over, he continues to hover nearby, looking distracted.

"You alright?" John asks. It comes out softer, tinged with characteristic concern, different and yet in some perverse way the same as the constant bickering, because it serves the same purpose.

Sherlock starts. "Mm. Yes, quite." He draws himself to his full height, shrugging off the intensity like a blanket. His eyes seem somewhat clearer than they have been in a week, although it could be the light. "Tomorrow-"

"We're going to clean out the icebox? Dispose of a body?"

"I was going to suggest breakfast, and then crawling back to Lestrade and begging him for a distraction. Unpaid parking tickets, anything."

"Scotland Yard, at least the part that we deal with, is not responsible for parking tickets, I'm fairly certain."

"Aren't they? Pity, might be a better use of their time."

John grimaces.

"Unless, of course, you have prior engagements?" Sherlock adds casually, worrying the hem of his sleeve with long fingers.

John levels his gaze with him as best as he can from where he's sitting, brows knitted, but finally his mouth quirks a little. "Never."

"Pleased to hear it," he replies suavely. He turns on a heel, but hesitates. "John-"

"Yes?"

He glances at him over his shoulder. "Would it make you, ah, more comfortable if I were to put on more clothing?"

"Doesn't matter either way, actually."

His brows furrow. "Doesn't it?" The answer seems to baffle him anew.

"Why? Sherlock?" But he has already drifted off. John just shakes his head. Best to forget about it, he thinks. He has a long day ahead of him, and he is wondering how hard it will be to get a hold of a Hazmat suit. Not exactly something you can just sign out at St. Bart's without arousing suspicion.

Still, things could be a lot worse.

Wind picks up outside, rattling through empty streets. The distant sound of traffic, a hanging suggestion of foul weather heavy in the air. Decisions and realizations are made - tiny things, constructed of carefully earned and guarded truth, protected for the time being from the onslaught, the endless procession of time and inevitable change. Most things are not certain, but this truth is.

\--- end


End file.
